Friday, January 11, 2008

Love Your Local Artist


I'm back from the far-away mystical land of Gatorbone, Florida where I was treated as lovingly and as graciously as the proverbial Prodigal Son, although in this case, it would be the Prodigal Daughter and I am better for it.

The trip was just as good as I thought it would be, and the baby-kissing just as sweet. It had all the elements of a great get-away which are: wonderful food, a cozy bed, terrific music, big, black loving dogs to pet, and people whom you love to share perfect days and jovial nights with. The shopping was good (the Scratch and Dent food store in St. Augustine is NOT to be missed, my friends) and the weather couldn't have been better. There were several themes to the trip, one of which was "It only burns for a minute," and the other, "These martinis are not getting any colder!"

And I just can't tell you how fabulous the young grandson was. Perfect in every way, and amiable to letting me, a perfect stranger, feed, hold, burp and dandle him.

And the drive over and the drive back were uneventful and I could get NPR on the radio the entire way!

Did I tell you it was the perfect trip?

But now I'm home and glad to be. As much as I love my friends, I am at heart a hermit and I have the potential for an entire weekend to myself. The Man is off hunting in Georgia. I think it's the last weekend for does or something like that. I'd think that he had a girlfriend except for the fact that he asked me to go with him. Although it was a terrifically sweet offer, I had to turn him down. There is no electricity or bathroom up there at the hunting camp and really, I'd rather be here with my stove and my lights and my plumbing.

I'm old.

So this weekend I plan to write the Great American Novel and get it published and maybe do a little yardwork. Take some walks. Make some fish, create a soup, ponder what the hell I'm supposed to be doing on this planet.

Same as usual.

I'm thinking a lot of artists and how they have to work so hard and be so brave to do what they have so obviously been put on this planet to do. It's weird. Brittany Spears, who is famous for falling apart in a spectacular and often void-of-panties way is richer than hell while people who are actually talented and work their asses off have to scramble for day jobs and live with the worry of having no insurance or retirement plans or regular incomes and yet somehow manage to keep on believing in what they do to the betterment of us all.

Support your local musician, folks.

And artist and writer and actor and so forth. All the people who take the basic, common items of life like words, notes, threads, color, paper, wind, metal, glass, wood, corn meal and oysters and create the things out of them that make us stop and think and rejoice or get angry or cry or pray or smile or dance or swoon with sheer pleasure.

Good for the heart, good for the soul, good for the economy, good for the artist.
Buy a painting, go see a play, buy a t-shirt, CD, book or hand-crocheted shawl, eat at a restaurant that a local chef works her magic in.

It only burns for a minute, feels good forever.

And do I hear someone saying that this martini is not going to get any colder?

Here's to those who live the dream, which is much, much harder than you would think.
God bless them and I thank them, these people who make the art that makes our lives worth living.

1 comment:

Tell me, sweeties. Tell me what you think.